


Fifty-Two Names for Snow

by rsconne



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Candles, Clexa, Clexa Week 2019, Day 3: Only One Bed, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Only One Bed, Power Outage, So much domesticity, escape from Valentine's Day, flannel, how many can I fit in?, it's a tropefest, not even sorry, snowstorm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 14:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17941478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsconne/pseuds/rsconne
Summary: Clarke Griffin is avoiding a Valentine's Day set up.  Lexa Woods wants to nurse her broken heart in peace.  They unwittingly book the same small mountain cabin, and there's a blizzard coming....





	Fifty-Two Names for Snow

**Author's Note:**

> "The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love."  
> \--Margaret Atwood

“No, really, Octavia, the manuscript’s almost done.  I just need a little more time.”  Clarke scrubbed a weary hand across her forehead as the lie tripped off her tongue.  She scowled at her computer screen, the blank page and blinking cursor cheerfully mocking her.  She swiveled her chair away from her desk with an irritated huff.  Her lip curled in a humorless smile at the promotional copies of her latest bestseller— _The Pleasure of the Sierra Madre_ —stacked neatly on the floor, awaiting her signature.  Clarke stifled a sigh and hunched her phone to her ear.

Her agent’s skepticism was evident through the line.  “Uh huh.  That’s what you said _last_ month, but I still haven’t seen a draft.  Clarke, you know how this business works.  _The Bedouin in the Bride_ is still selling well and _Back in His Saddle Again_ just slipped off the bestseller list.  You’re hot right now—you’ve got to get the sequel out while you’ve still got some buzz from the last one.  We’ve already got the cover art ready to go, but you’ve got to get me the manuscript.”

“Are we using the same artist as before?”  Clarke asked absently.  She cast a jaundiced eye at the cover of her most recent novel, the buxom heroine swooning in the arms of her shirtless, brawny cowboy lover.  She hummed without enthusiasm at Octavia’s assent.  Her thoughts drifted as Octavia droned on about _copy_ and _galleys_ and _marketing_ , tossing in a “right” or an “uh huh” here and there to keep the one-sided conversation afloat.  Silence finally lengthened between them, and Clarke sensed that she’d said something amiss.  “What?”

Octavia sighed.  “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“No—I mean, yes!  I, uh, just had some dialogue pop into my head and I was jotting it down.” 

Clarke’s excuse sounded lame even to her.  From her long-suffering tone, Octavia wasn’t buying it, either.  “Whatever.  So are you in for dinner Friday night?”

“Sure, I guess.” 

Clarke realized her mistake from the smugness in Octavia’s voice.  “Great!  I’ll tell Lincoln to let Roan know.”

“Wait, Roan?”  Clarke groaned to herself, seeing too late where this was going.  Ever since Octavia and Lincoln had gotten engaged, she’d made it her personal mission to see that Clarke also enjoyed the wondrous contentment of coupledom.  Clarke’s own wishes in the matter were irrelevant.  “Octavia—”

“He’s one of Lincoln’s coworkers—you met him at the New Year’s gala last month.  He’s asked Lincoln about you a couple of times.”

“O, I’m really not interested in a set up—” Clarke tried again, to no avail.

“Come on, Clarke, how long’s it been since you dated someone?  Like an _actual_ date?  We just want you to be happy.”  Octavia rushed on before Clarke could interject that she was, in fact, _quite_ happy not to be the subject of her friends’ pity and uninspired taste in men.  “Besides,” she wheedled, “it’s Valentine’s weekend.  You don’t want to be alone on Valentine’s Day, do you?”

“Actually—”

“Clarke.”  Octavia reverted to her no-nonsense book agent’s voice of authority.  “You’re a _romance_ writer—”

“I prefer contemporary adult novelist—”

“Whatever.  Like it or not, the public has certain expectations of romance writers.  Being single hurts your image and credibility.”  Octavia twisted the knife a little deeper.  “Besides, you’re months overdue on that manuscript.  You owe me.” 

Clarke gritted her teeth.  “Fine.”

*********

Clarke hefted her suitcase, laptop, and a bag filled with incidentals into the trunk of her Honda.  She really _had_ meant to honor her arrangement with Octavia, but as the end of the week drew closer, the prospect of a blind date made her stomach churn.  Friday morning dawned and Clarke couldn’t take it any longer.  She left Octavia a voicemail claiming to be sick, throwing in a few staged coughs for good measure.  Aware that Octavia was unlikely to let her beg off without confirming that she actually had the plague, Clarke packed her things and prepared to skip town.  She could’ve gotten a hotel room, but there was something vaguely sad about holing up alone in a hotel over Valentine’s Day.  Getting away from it all might be a good thing.  _Maybe I can clear my head and finally finish this fucking manuscript._   She did a quick google search for mountain cabins and began making calls.  The first few rental agencies were all booked up—it _was_ Valentine’s weekend, one of them loftily reminded her—but she struck paydirt on the fourth try.  A late cancellation, small and “rustic” and “a bit out of the way,” the reservation clerk cautioned, but Clarke had stopped listening at “vacancy.”  She forked over her credit card information without another word. 

Clarke hopped in the car and hesitated as she started to connect her phone.  It was only a matter of time until her phone blew up with irate messages from Octavia.  Acting on impulse, she keyed the Off button and tossed it aside.  She felt a mild pang of guilt at standing Roan up—but he was a reasonably-attractive man, he’d surely find another date—but the rush of relief as she pulled out of her driveway far outweighed it.  She cranked the volume and sang happily along with the radio as the miles passed, the crush of the city gradually giving way to open country and rolling hills.  She felt more carefree than she had in ages: no one to answer to, no devices to tether her, most of all, no expectations, even from herself. 

Clarke followed the highway into the foothills, finally exiting at the small town that the rental agency had advised had the closest shopping for miles.  The skies were gray and full of gathering clouds when she stopped at the local grocery store, and the wind had picked up considerably, swirling snow flurries mixed with pellets of sleet.  Clarke shrugged into her winter coat, thankful that she’d remembered to grab it in her mad dash out the door.  Inside, locals were loading up on bread and milk.  Clarke vaguely registered their concern, enough to put a few extras in her cart.  _A second bottle of red?  Why not?_  Fully stocked for a long weekend, Clarke drove into the hills.  

*********

Lexa drummed moody fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music.  Her thoughts were in too much turmoil to really process what was playing on the generic alternative rock station.  Using the cabin she and Costia had booked months ago for their romantic getaway—her lip twisted at the thought—had seemed like a good idea when she’d haphazardly thrown items in her Subaru back in Polis, but now…. She grimaced when she finally registered that she’d been bopping along to the Red Hot Chili Peppers— _another song about California? really?_ —and switched off the radio with an impatient flick.  It was just as well; she needed all her attention on the narrow road winding its way higher into the mountains.  Between the low-hanging cloud cover and the deep pine forest rising all around her, dark was coming on much earlier than at home.  The wispy flurries of the foothills had progressed to full-fledged snow showers at the higher elevation, and she cranked the wipers up a notch to keep the windshield clear. 

Lexa’s eyes strained as she scanned the road.  The mountains had blocked her GPS signal miles back, but according to the printed directions, her turn off should be coming up.  Sure enough, she spotted the sign just ahead and made the turn.  Her little sigh of relief was tempered by a steep ascent up the sharply twisting driveway, which gave way to gravel after a quarter mile.  _Costia always did know how to pick them_.  The bitter stab of irritation led her to goose the accelerator a little too hard.  The car’s back end skidded a bit before the traction control kicked in; not for the first time, Lexa mentally congratulated herself for her foresight in choosing a car with AWD.            

The driveway finally ended in front of a small, snug cabin perched almost at the crest of the ridgeline.  The outside was clad in rough-hewn timber and more logs were stacked on the deep front porch.  Lexa barely took in the cabin itself; the lights on inside and a strange car in the drive, already covered in a solid dusting of snow, were what caught her attention.  _No…she wouldn’t…._   Blood thrummed in her ears and a sound halfway between a sob and a snarl punched out of her chest.  She yanked the car door open and stormed toward the cabin, ignoring the pelting sting of sleet and snow against her cheeks.  She threw open the cabin door and spat out, “Dammit, Costia—” but the words died in her throat at the ear-splitting shriek that greeted her. 

A strange woman stood at the kitchen counter, visibly shaken, red wine seeping from the broken glass at her feet.  Blonde hair fell loosely around the woman’s shoulders, which were swathed in an oversized University of Arkadia sweatshirt.  Dark leggings clung to firm thighs, and, incongruously, she wore fuzzy Captain America socks.  A slight smudge dimpled her chin and wide blue eyes radiated shock.  

Lexa drew up short and gaped.  “You’re not Costia,” she blurted. 

*********

“No, I’m Clarke,” Clarke replied automatically, still staring dumbstruck at the intruder.  _Wait, why am I telling her this?_   She gave herself a mental shake and fired back, “Who the hell is Costia?  Who the hell are _you?_ ”

“I’m Lexa.”  The stranger produced a folded sheet of paper from her jacket pocket.  “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong cabin.”  She consulted the paper with a slight tilt of her head that Clarke told herself was not endearing in the slightest.  “I’m looking for Bearfoot Bungalow.”

Clarke looked confused.  “No, that’s this one.  Are you sure you have the right dates?”  She stepped closer to Lexa, as if to check the printout herself. 

“Yes, see?”  Lexa pointed to the reservation.  “That’s today.  Are you sure _you’re_ in the right place?  I mean, I guess you must be, since the key code worked and all,” she added hastily.

Clarke was already fishing out her phone to call the rental company.  “It must be a mix-up with the agency, when I booked it they said it was a last minute cancellation, but they must have confused it with another property.”  She started to punch in the number, then sighed and held up her phone.  “Damn.  No signal.  Shit, how am I going to find out where I’m supposed to be?”

Lexa interrupted Clarke’s fretting.  “I think I know what happened.”  She looked embarrassed.  “I _did_ have this cabin reserved a while back, but something came up and it didn’t seem like it was going to work out—it’s a long story.  I decided this morning that I might as well come up here anyway.  I didn’t realize the reservation had been canceled.”  She turned an earnest expression to Clarke.  “This is all my fault.  I’m so sorry for barging in and scaring you like that and, well, everything.  I’ll get out of your hair.”  She turned to leave. 

It might have been the sparkle of melting snowflakes that glinted in Lexa’s thick mane of curls, or perhaps it was slightly crestfallen set of her jaw as she turned away, or maybe it was the fiery, borderline dangerous snap of her eyes when she burst in that sparked warmth in Clarke’s belly even as it startled the daylights out of her, but Clarke found herself oddly reluctant to see the strange woman leave.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Clarke huffed.  “It’s nearly dark, you might as well stay the night.  We can sort it all out in the morning.”

Lexa hesitated.  “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want to intrude on your vacation any more than I already have.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and motioned Lexa back into the cabin.  “It’s not a vacation, and you’re not interrupting anything.  Look,” she added, a cajoling note entering her voice, “I was about to make dinner.  Nothing fancy, just spaghetti,” she nodded at a package of pasta and a jar of sauce on the counter, “but I always make too many noodles.  You’d be doing me a favor by sharing it with me and helping save my figure.”      

Clarke could have sworn Lexa’s eyes drifted down her body in a quick onceover before darting away, but the faint pink that dusted her cheeks might have just been from the cold.  “Well…as long you’re sure I’m not imposing.  Oh, I do have a bottle of wine in the car—you know, to make up for—” Lexa motioned ruefully at the spillage on the floor.  Clarke laughed, and after a beat, the fine lines that creased the corners of Lexa’s eyes eased and she joined in. 

“That sounds great,” Clarke said.  She began mopping up the broken glass and spilled wine with a dishtowel, telling herself firmly that the little swoop in her belly at Lexa’s low chuckle was nothing more than hunger pangs.         

Lexa retrieved her suitcase and the groceries she was reluctant to leave unattended in the car overnight—“there are bears, Clarke,” she said solemnly—while Clarke busied herself with meal prep.  Lexa poured wine for them both and put together a green salad from her own groceries.  More than once, Clarke’s gaze strayed to the counter where Lexa stood adroitly slicing salad toppings, but there was scant conversation between them until they sat down at the table.  Lexa clinked her glass to Clarke’s in salute, and they tucked into their meals, both of them suddenly ravenous.     

“So who’s Costia?” Clarke said curiously, as she twirled a bite of spaghetti onto her fork. 

The name made Lexa flinch.  She covered her reaction with a sip of wine, but set her glass down a little more emphatically than she meant to.  “She’s no one,” she said flatly.  A heaviness descended over their conversation.  They ate in fraught silence, Clarke kicking herself for shutting Lexa down just as she’d seemed about to open up.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke said quietly.  “It’s none of my business, but you shouted her name at me when you walked in.”  Despite the tension, the corner of her mouth twitched at the understatement. 

Lexa cut her off before she could continue.  “No, _I’m_ sorry.  I didn’t mean to be rude, especially to you.”  Clarke could tell Lexa was weighing how much to say, but she masked her reserve by topping off both their glasses.  She took a quick swallow to steel herself before she continued.  “Costia’s my ex.  We were actually supposed to come up here together—romantic weekend, our first Valentine’s together and all that.  But then about a month ago, I came home early from a business trip.  I thought I’d surprise her, you know?”  She gave a little hollow bark of laughter.  Clarke already sensed what was coming.  She ached at the hurt behind Lexa’s eyes, a hurt she knew all too well herself.  “Turns out I was the one getting the surprise.  I walked in on her and her yoga instructor in our bed.  You know,” she added reflectively, “when they say yoga improves flexibility, they really aren’t kidding.” 

Clarke burst out in an involuntary snort of laughter and met Lexa’s wry half-smile.  Unbidden, her mind flashed to images of Lexa’s back arching and her long, graceful legs splayed wide in a decidedly non-yoga pose.  She took a quick sip of wine to conceal her flushed cheeks.

“Anyway, after that….”  Lexa shrugged a little self-consciously.  “I couldn’t really stomach Valentine’s Day in town, what with couples everywhere and all the stupid ads and everything, and then I remembered the cabin.  I figured I might as well make use of it.  When I saw your car out front, I thought…well, that I was about to walk in on her all over again.”  She polished off the last of her wine and stood, gathering up their dirty dishes to carry them into the kitchen.  “So now you know my tragic love story,” she said over her shoulder, her attempt at lightness not quite hiding the pain that still lingered beneath the surface.  She kept her back to Clarke as she filled the sink with soapy water and began to scrub at the soiled cookware a little harder than necessary. 

Clarke sat quietly for a moment, thinking about Lexa’s story.  She drained the last drops of her wine and walked over to the sink, where Lexa still had her back turned.  Her shoulders were stiff with barely-contained strain.  Clarke hesitated before laying a cautious hand on Lexa’s shoulder.  Lexa tensed, then relaxed into Clarke’s touch.  Her hands stilled in the dishwater. 

“I’m sorry she did that to you,” Clarke said softly.  “I don’t know what kind of relationship you had, but no one deserves that.”  Lexa detected an undercurrent of sadness to her words.  She half turned her head and raised a questioning eyebrow.  Clarke’s answering smile was bittersweet.  “An ex,” she said simply.  “It was a long time ago.” 

Lexa nodded once and looked away, but her shoulders sagged as some of the tightness ebbed from her frame.  Clarke gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and a little pat.  She reluctantly pulled her hand away, already missing the warm strength she’d felt under the rough texture of Lexa’s sweater.  She snagged a dry dishcloth and playfully nudged Lexa’s hip with her own.  “Scoot over.”  At Lexa’s confused look, she explained, “You wash, I’ll dry.” 

“You did the cooking, Clarke.  The chef doesn’t do the dishes,” Lexa protested weakly, nonetheless handing a wet plate to Clarke as if they’d practiced the routine many times. 

Clarke tsked at her, smiling.  “Don’t be silly, you helped with the salad.  Besides, we’ll get them done faster.  But if you want to be all chivalrous, I won’t stop you next time.”  The teasing words were already out of her mouth before she realized that she’d implied there would _be_ a ‘next time.’  Her cheeks warmed, whether from embarrassment at her slip of the tongue, or realizing that she _liked_ the prospect of a next time, she wasn’t sure.  From Lexa’s sidelong glance and the faint uptick at the corner of her mouth, she’d noticed the comment, too, but made no response.                     

They finished the rest of the small stack of dishes in comfortable silence, and if Lexa’s wet fingers brushed against Clarke’s as she passed dishes to her, neither of them remarked on it.  Bellies full and chores done, they made their way into the living room.  “So,” Lexa said awkwardly.  “I don’t want to be a bother, I’ll just read or something and stay out of your way.”  She scanned the room for an out-of-the way place to curl up and drew up short.  With the whirlwind of bursting in and making dinner and _Clarke_ , Lexa hadn’t really taken a moment to process her surroundings.  _Small_ was putting it charitably.  A fireplace with a small stack of kindling beside it dominated one wall.  A stand in the corner held an ancient TV/VCR combo on top and a smattering of creased, tattered paperbacks below.  A few outdoor landscape prints and a taxidermied deer head graced the knotty pine walls.  An oval braided rug lay in front of the hearth.  The rest of the space was nearly filled by the room’s only chair, a worn, plaid sofa.

“Wow, it’s…”

“Tiny?” Clarke supplied, laughing at the dismay on Lexa’s face.

“I think the ad said ‘cozy,’” Lexa said tactfully.  She shifted from one foot to the other, clearly wondering where she should sit that wouldn’t be in Clarke’s way. 

Clarke read her mind.  Moving to the sofa herself, she tugged Lexa along gently by the arm and made her sit.  “You’re not a bother, I’m enjoying the company,” she assured her, finding that she genuinely was, far more than she’d have thought possible.  “Besides, it’s just for tonight.”  The thought stirred a little twinge of regret that Clarke resolutely shoved aside.  “I figured I’d just watch a movie or something tonight.  Want to join me?”

Lexa eyed the dusty TV with skepticism.  Clarke made a face.  “Yeah, I’m not sure that even works, and it looks like _Babe_ is the only video.”  She leaned over the arm of the sofa and dug out her laptop.  “I’ve got some saved on here.”  She opened the lid and booted it up.  “Good thing I was planning to do some work,” she said idly.

Lexa scooted closer to Clarke on the sofa so that she could see the screen better.  “What kind of work do you do?”

Clarke cringed to herself.  “Oh, just some writing,” she said vaguely, hoping Lexa would let it go.  The last thing she needed was to be stuck in a cabin overnight with an overeager fan.  Lexa didn’t seem the type, but then, the worst ones never usually did.

No such luck.  Lexa’s interest perked up.  She angled herself sideways on the sofa and propped an elbow on the back.  “Oh?  You’re a writer?  What do you write?”

“Ah…modern adult fiction,” Clarke hedged, falling back on her time-tested euphemism.

Lexa’s brow furrowed.  Clarke would have found it adorable if she hadn’t been mentally castigating herself for even mentioning her profession.  “Adult fiction…so is that historical fiction?  Sci-fi?  Anything I’ve heard of?”

“Not exactly.  I mean, sometimes I write elements of that, but….”  Clarke gave it up with a sigh.  “I’m a romance writer.  I write under an alias.  Alicia Clark is my pen name.”  She braced herself for the usual wave of recognition and flurry of questions, but they didn’t come.  Lexa still looked blank.  “ _No Quarter for the Captain_?  _Her Jolly Roger_?”  Clarke was a little put out despite herself.  “I’m sure you’ve heard of _Rode Hard Put Away Wet_.”

Lexa shook her head and shrugged apologetically.  “Sorry, I don’t read much romance.  Or, well, not straight romance,” she mumbled, her cheeks turning a little rosy.  “I’m more into detective novels and mysteries.  When I have time to read, anyway.” 

The admission mollified Clarke a bit; even though she didn’t relish the prospect of being cooped up with a fan, the lack of recognition still stung her ego.  She changed the subject and gestured at the computer screen, now up and running.  “Ok, here’s what I’ve got.  Anything look good to you?”

Lexa leaned in to scan the tiny print, bringing her cheek very close to Clarke’s.  Clarke fought the urge to turn her head, to bury her face in Lexa’s thick waves and breathe in her clean, warm scent.  Lexa’s soft chuckle interrupted these appealing thoughts.  “ _The Mummy_ , Clarke?”

Clarke snorted despite herself and gave Lexa a friendly nudge with her elbow.  “Shut up,” she growled good naturedly.  “Rachel Weisz is hot.”  Lexa gave her a quick, appraising glance before resuming her perusal of Clarke’s video files.  She said nothing, but a knowing smirk lingered on her lips. 

“How about _The Birdcage_?”

“Oh, yeah.  That’s one of my favorites,” Clarke agreed.  She cued up the film and adjusted the volume, lifting the computer off her lap long enough for Lexa to pull an afghan off the back of the sofa and tuck it snugly over both of their legs.  Lexa had to squeeze close to Clarke so that she could see the screen.  The press of her firm thigh against Clarke’s and the faint woodsy scent that clung to her clothes were thoroughly pleasant distractions that made it difficult for Clarke to focus on the film.  She longed to take Lexa’s hand in hers and tangle their fingers together in shy touches beneath the blanket.  The inexplicable wave of comfortable domesticity she felt with this perfect stranger baffled her, but she was too tired to try to make sense of it. 

Clarke tried valiantly to keep her eyes open, but it had been a long day and a long drive.  Lexa’s body was warm and pliant next to her, and before long, her eyelids were drooping.  The next thing she knew, a hand was gently jostling her shoulder and a kind, faraway voice was calling her name.  The sound finally cut through and she came awake with a start.  Her head was burrowed into the crook of Lexa’s shoulder and there was a small damp patch against her cheek.  Her face pinked and she tried to unobtrusively dab away the wetness from the corner of her mouth. 

“Shit, sorry,” she mumbled.  “Was I—” _drooling?_

“Snoring?” Lexa teased.  “Yeah, a little bit.  It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Clarke said, noting with no small embarrassment that the computer screen was paused on the film’s end credits.

Lexa shrugged.  “You seemed tired, and I was watching the movie.  Besides…” her voice faltered for a beat and it was her turn to look sheepish.  “Never mind, it’s not important.  But that’s probably our cue to go to bed.”

Clarke yawned and agreed.  She laid the laptop aside.  They helped each other to their feet and made their way to the bedroom.  Clarke walked into the room and flicked on the light, and stopped so abruptly that Lexa almost walked into her back.

“Clarke?  What’s the matter?”

“Um.”  Clarke turned to the side so that Lexa could see what had taken her aback.  A dresser and small wardrobe stood on one side of the tiny bedroom.  A rustic, wood-framed bed covered with an inviting, patchwork quilt took up the rest of the room.  Bed.  _One_ bed.

_Oh._

“I’m sorry, I should’ve realized sooner that there was only one bed,” Clarke babbled, talking faster to try to cover up her red face and the sudden squirm in her belly that the lone bed and Lexa right behind her had kindled.  “I mean, I knew there was just the one bedroom, but I didn’t really think it through—”

“It’s fine, Clarke,” Lexa said calmly, but there was a hint of color in her own cheeks and she carefully avoided looking at Clarke.

“It’s big enough, I’m sure we could share,” Clarke began. 

Lexa demurred.  “I’ll be fine on the sofa.  Really, Clarke,” she insisted, when Clarke started to protest.  “It’s just for a night, and I can tell that you’re exhausted.  You should take the bed.  Besides, it’s your cabin,” she added practically. 

Clarke tried again, but Lexa would have none of it.  Still vaguely unsatisfied at this turn of events, Clarke nonetheless acceded to Lexa’s wishes and helped her make up a cozy nest on the couch with some extra blankets they found in the wardrobe.  She wished her goodnight and retired to the bedroom and the suddenly too-large, too-cold bed.  Her last thoughts before finally drifting off to sleep were of mossy green and full, warm lips.   

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a one-shot, but I'm so behind with writing that I decided to split it up so I could get something out. Never fear, hijinks will ensure in part 2 ;). Also, I know it's an utter tropefest and not my Best Work Evah, but I'm trying to write my way out of this godawful writer's block I've been stuck in for months, so...be gentle?


End file.
